Right as Rain
by tapioca two-step
Summary: After the fire, Meg returns to the Opera House with a mask and a proposition for the Phantom. In order to save herself, she promises the impossible: to draw Christine back to the opera and back into Erik's arms. What happens when her plan backfires?
1. High and Dry

**Right as Rain**

**By: Moojuice Nne of the Mayonaisse**

Hello! I'm glad you decided to read this. Bienvenidos!

I am the happiest person in the world right now. My friend just got back from her trip to Tampa, Florida, where she went to go see the Phantom of the Opera play! She brought a program, cast descriptions, and cast list for me. She got them signed by Rebecca Pitcher ::Christine::, Patti Davidson Gorbea ::Madame Giry::, and Gary Mauer ::Phantom:: I AM SOOOO HAPPY!!! I love my Sheepchi!! Thanks!

A couple of days ago I stumbled upon a Meg/Erik fanfiction. It was really sweet; I forgot the title…you will have to find it yourselves. Sorry! Anyway, I've decided to write an E/M fic, just to see what happens. You guys who know me as an E/C shipper, be patient! I promise this is a good idea! I think it'll be fun.

I hope you enjoy this fanfiction. It takes place about two months after Christine leaves with Raoul. You can probably draw from descriptions what has happened to everyone since then. Please forgive me, but I've never seen pictures of the Opera house, so I'm describing what I think it looks like! Don't flame me, I'm not a history major!

**Disclaimer: I can't pay for a bottle of YooHoo. I can't possibly own the rights to POTO, though I would rub it in all of your faces if I did! No, no, just kidding!**

**Chapter One: High and Dry**

**Meg's POV**

The rain was pouring down from the heated gray sky, sheeting down in cold torrents that seemed to have enough force to knock someone over. The streets were full of dangerously flowing rivers, coursing in every which way and sweeping debris clear of the cobblestones and carrying them perilously into dark alleys. A shaft of lightning split the sky above the silent buildings of Paris; a sharp crack came immediately after, and the ground trembled at the onslaught of the storm. Nobody inhabited the streets; all were safe in their warm homes, sipping tea and sitting in front of a blazing red fire, blissfully aware that they were safe from the terrible storm outside.

All except me, however; it was in these terrifying conditions that I set out from my own little shack in a poor section of Paris, walking briskly past the saggy roofed houses of the slum I resided in, keeping my gaze situated on the road in front of me. I had wrapped myself in my mother's old black coat, in an attempt to keep my thin and torn cotton dress from becoming completely soaked, but as I drew nearer to my destination it became clear that my dress would be completely sodden with or without my mother's coat; the latter had as many holes in it as the stars in the sky. Nevertheless, I kept the shoddy garment wrapped around me; probably to help me gather my wits. The streets were dark and the sky was darker, save for the brief moments when terrible rays of light tore ragged gashes in the thick canopy.

As I came to the dark building I was aiming for, a sharp pang of remembrance stabbed my heart. It was so lonely, so gloomy—such a contrast from the building it had been but a few months before that I hardly recognized it. I looked around me, stunned. People in evening dress used to gather there, I thought, and the lights were always on in the windows above the streets. The doors leading to the lobby were always open, and lush red carpet used to cover the flagstone steps. Now, the front doors were boarded up with heavy planks of wood and police tape surrounded the perimeter, flapping wildly in the wind like thin blond snakes. Tears mixed with the rain streaming down my face, but I impatiently wiped the water away and tiptoed closer to the front doors. Happy voices used to float into the evening atmosphere like drowsy butterflies; professional, crystal voices used to pierce the air triumphantly, and thunderous clapping always followed. Now, there was only the sound of pounding rain and ear-splitting thunder.

I stretched one arm out in front of me and pressed on the planks that barred the front doors. It cracked loudly, but did not budge. I pushed harder, gritting my teeth. I _had _to get inside. The wood would not comply with me. Frustrated, I made a fist and banged the door repeatedly, shouting profanities at it as if it were a living thing. The wood merely took its beating and paid me no heed. I was tiring quickly: I had just walked a mile from my house in pouring rain and incensed lightning, and both my nerves and my muscles were exhausted. The side of my hand was bleeding from where I struck the wood. Several splinters stuck out of the skin.

Stifling a sob, I withdrew my arm and looked around for another entrance. Most of the lower windows were blocked in the same style of the door—all save one, which was about six feet above the ground. The frame was filled with serrated shards of broken glass. The ledge below the window was littered with more broken glass. No doubt there were more remains of the window below the window on the inside. I wiped my hair away from my eyes and walked cautiously towards the window. Mud squelched under my floppy shoes.

The window was higher up than I expected, but I tried climbing up anyway. However, as soon as I placed my hands on the ledge, broken glass slid into my fingers and palms. I let out a pained yelp and let go, falling into a puddle of greasy water, bits of stained glass showering onto my face. I lifted my hands up and looked at them with horror in my eyes. Thin tendrils of blood slid down my fingers and gathered in my palms as crimson pools. I bit back the urge to call for my mother and stood up again, shrugging the black coat off of my back and throwing it onto the window ledge. I _was _getting into the Opera House.

I resumed my climb; this time I was able to grope my way up to where I was crouching on the ledge, brushing tiny pieces of glass away from my knees. I had probably put more holes in the coat by now, but at least I was out of the rain. I hopped through the window and landed on the glass below. One of the fragments pierced the thin leather of my boot and slipped into the heel of my foot. I clamped both of my hands onto my mouth to stifle my scream, but the sound rang on the walls anyway. When I took my hands away from my face, I found that my bleeding fingers had made red smudges across my cheeks and lips. More tears gathered in my eyes.

"Mama," I whispered softly, my voice echoing in the vast emptiness of the Opera House. "Mama, help me. I am frightened."

As I expected, I received no answer. Dying people always tell the loved ones they leave behind to remember that they'll be looking down on the ones they love, and will ask Jesus to always protect them. People who are leaving for a better place always lie to you, to pretend that they care enough about you to make you feel better.

I stood up and wrung the dripping water out of my long brown hair, which was matted and dirty and filled with twigs and glass and mud. I shook it out of my eyes and looked around at my surroundings. The carpet I was standing on was sodden with the rain that had blown in from the open window; another rumbling peal of thunder urged me into a limping run away from the window and towards the lobby. Everything was dark and musty; dust rose up from the floors as my feet disturbed the peace. It was so deathly quiet that I could hear my heart beating; I was fairly certain that even my heartbeat was reverberating in this place. Drops of water that still clung to the scraggly ends of my hair fell onto the floor with audible _plops_.

I approached the doors to the Concert Hall so reverently that I could have been approaching the infant Jesus in his cradle. I gripped the handle of the door lightly and pushed it forwards. The door swung open slowly, creaking slowly and loudly. The scene that met my eyes almost knocked the breath out of me. The Concert Hall was dead. Dust had gathered so thickly on the stage that I could see it from where I stood. The statue that was perilously perched above the stage was dull and formless. The chandelier that hung on a thick chain from the towering ceiling was so coated with cobwebs and dust that the brilliance of its golden bars was made obsolete. Dust and grime covered the red felt chairs, and the once brilliant crimson curtains were now a bloody gray color. Even the air had a blue tint to it, similar to the wisps of fog you see in forests at twilight.

_People used to sing on this stage. People used to sit in these chairs. The light that poured from above used to come from that chandelier…but no more. _

Blood dripped off of my fingertips and pooled out of my shoe as I stood there in awe. My hands were throbbing. I took a tentative step forwards, bringing my injured foot up quickly as the pressure pushed the glass further in. I put one of my hands on the back of a seat to help balance myself, then continued to limp towards the stage. My other hand strayed towards the pocked of my dress. When my bleeding fingers found the cool, smooth surface of the mask, sudden dread filled me. I really had no clue as to what I was doing. I was only fulfilling the wishes of a dying woman.

I was told to take the Phantom's mask back to the Opera house and deliver it to the house by the Underground Lake. I had taken it from the bench in front of the organ when the mob stormed the Phantom's lair in pursuit of Christine. They were going to kill him, but he slipped through their fingers and was gone. In fact, Christine slipped through their fingers as well—she had eloped with the Viscount Raoul de Chagny. The lair was empty, so the mob retreated back upstairs. Everyone was too tired to continue. The Opera House was shut down; police soured every inch of it in search of any traces of the Opera Ghost; when they found nothing, they left, posting a law that the Opera House would be closed until further notice. The strangest thing about the whole occurrence, though, was that when the mob left the Underground Lake, nobody could remember the way to get back to it. They tried every possible way that could be remembered—all led to dead ends.

By then, my mother and I were living in the slums in Paris; we had no other talent except dancing, and we could not find jobs in any other Opera House anywhere. Then, my mother fell ill, and, having no money in which to buy medicines or hire doctors, I had to watch as she slowly slipped away from me. When she died, our neighbors buried her body in the soft ground behind the church. We had to do this in secret, because we had no money to buy a plot of land. Her grave is unmarked, but I hope she is happy with what we could get for her.

I continued my limping walk down the aisle, looking nervously from side to side at the dead hall. The stage grew bigger before my eyes; before I knew it I was walking up the steps on the side that led to it. The dust muffled the clumsy sound of my feet striking the wood. I walked tentatively towards the center of the stage, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to calm myself down. I took the mask out of my pocket and looked at it. The creamy white porcelain was molded into the general shape of one side of a man's face: a high and broad forehead, straight nose, a thin cheek, rather full lips, a strong jaw line…the cheek of the mask was smeared with the blood oozing out of my fingers. I made no attempt to wipe it away with the tattered hem of my dress.

How was I supposed to do this? I did not have the bravery to go down to the Underground Lake by myself—even when the mob was with me I didn't want to go! I looked at my swollen and bloody hands, and felt the shard of glass in the heel of my foot. I couldn't leave now. So I cleared my throat and raised the mask above my head.

"Phantom of the Opera," I called in a quavering voice. The Hall seemed to tremble with the arrival of a voice. I could see dust fall from the chandelier and float down to rest on the audiences' chairs. "I have your mask! I hope that you will come and take it so I may leave in peace!!"

_That was stupid, _I thought as I was finished disturbing the absolute silence. _I may leave in peace?_

"Come and retrieve your mask, o Phantom!"

_You're making him sound like a dog._

No answer.

"Please come to me and take back what is yours!"

_That was better. _

But there was still no answer.

"_Fine!!"_I cried, stamping my foot down on the dusty stage floor. Droplets of blood leaked out of my shoe and stained the dull wood. A huge cloud of gray powder billowed up and surrounded my body. I started sneezing as the particles floated into my mouth and nose. My foot felt as if it were on fire. I heard a soft _clunk, _and then a waft of icy cold air brushed against my skin from below.

Suddenly, I fell. I was dropped so quickly that I hardly had time to try and right myself in the air, and I landed heavily on my back. My breath was knocked from my lungs. Dust rained onto me from above and landed in my mouth, eyes, and hair. I lay there, choking, looking up with watery eyes at the small square of dusky light pouring in from above. My brain feebly tried to register what had happened to me. Had I fallen into the middle of the earth from the Opera stage? No, I must have fallen into one of the cellars. Maybe a loose board slipped when I stamped my foot…but no, the opening above me was perfectly square. There were no boards like that on the stage.

The memory of the terrible night when we marched down to the Lake came back to me. Christine had been singing. She was standing in the middle of the stage, and then she…disappeared. I must have fallen through the same hole she did. No, not a hole. A trap door. I got up tentatively, unsure of where I landed and vainly trying to see where I stood. I saw a dull gleam in the corner of my eye and turned my attention to it. The mask! I approached it and picked it up. It hadn't been damaged. I kept my fingers wrapped around its form and looked around nervously. I remembered when Christine unmasked her 'Angel of Music'. I had not seen his face. People said it was horrible, and even described it, but I didn't believe that God would create such a wretched-looking creature. I thought that fear had just made them see things that weren't there. I was starting to see things also, and as shadows flickered before my eyes, I thought I saw the form of a person standing in front of me.

"M…monsieur Phantom?" I asked. My voice was shaking dangerously. I felt close to tears. The darkness was becoming less overwhelming as my eyes adjusted to the complete lack of light, and I could barely see a wall in front of me; to the right, a path, and farther off, a faint gleam. The air was moist.

I began to limp along the path, painfully aware that the glass in my foot was probably damaging the nerves. I kept one of my hands on the mossy stone wall for guidance. The only sound was that of my unsteady footsteps striking the floor. My dress, tattered, torn, and bloody, slapped against my bare knees with each step I took. I repeatedly tugged my mousy waist-length hair behind my ears. The silence was unnerving.

I kept walking, and with each step I took, my heart beat faster, my bleeding fingers tightened around the mask of the Phantom, and the pain in my limbs became more and more excruciating. At one point of my journey, a razor-edged piece of glass that had been caught in my hair fell onto my shoulder and sliced it open. Blood squirted out and splashed onto the flagstones in front of me. But I kept going, and limped for what seemed like miles. I was beginning to see stars from the loss of blood, and the darkness began to creep up from all around me. As I continued my journey down, the air grew colder, and I could dimly see my breath in the dimness.

Suddenly, I was standing on the banks of the Underground Lake. Shapeless forms hung above that water, swaying gently to and fro. I squinted at them until I could recognize the shapes: they were the lanterns that usually were lit to alert people that they were near the water, and one false step could mean falling into dark and unknown depths. Only one of the lanterns was lit—it was at the far side of the Lake, a glowing, warm beacon that pierced the blue gloom that surrounded the area. I looked around for the dock; I saw that it had been destroyed, and only a dejected wooden pole sticking up out of the unmoving water gave evidence that there ever was a dock there. The boat was gone, too.

I squinted through the dense fog that swirled above the surface of the Lake, trying to see any form of life. The far end of the Lake was lost in murkiness; the only possible way I could get to the other end would be to swim, and with my bleeding shoulder and exhausted limbs, I didn't think that possible.

All of a sudden, I realized that there was a thin, thin outcropping of stone lining the walls that enveloped the Lake. It was barely wider than my foot, but it looked like it went all the way to the other side of the Lake. Possibly, just possibly, I could run along this perilous path and make it to the Phantom's house.

_It's worth a try, _I thought, placing my foot gently on one of the steps, testing my weight. My foot slipped, and I fell with a mighty splash into the water. The freezing cold liquid rushed all around me, constricting my lungs; as I came to the surface I took a deep breath and screamed with all the breath I had in my lungs. The water bit into my wounds and paralyzed my body with pain. I scrabbled at the wet stones with my fingers, desperate for something, anything to grab on to. I was slipping back into the water; it surrounded me, pressed against me, slinking up to my neck, splashing around my chin. I kicked wildly with my frozen legs, trying to boost myself onto the bank not three feet away from my grasp. My rude splashing and screaming had disrupted the silence that had ruled there; now, everything seemed to be alive. Everything else was alive, and I was drowning.

I felt the weight of the mask against my hip and thought wildly, _Somebody__, help me!!_

My strength had failed me completely. My frozen, bleeding fingers could no longer grip the smooth stones lining the sides of the Lake. The gash on my shoulder had stained the waters around me into a murky crimson color. My whole body, from my neck to my feet, was frozen in pain and fear and cold. I let out one more audible sound for help—no words, just the moan of an animal in the vice of death, and let the water take me.

_The mask rests comfortably on my hip. _

_The water constricts my lungs, refusing to let me breathe._

_Somebody grabs me around the waist…hauls me up to someplace warm and bright…_

_My mother smiling at me…_

_"Meg, you little wench, practice your dance steps…"_

This is the end of chapter one. If I made any mistakes in grammar, PLEASE tell me! I hoped you liked this chapter, 'cause there's a whole slew of them after this! Chapter Two will be up VERY shortly!

Much love, you all!


	2. Out of the Rain

**Right as Rain**

**By: Moojuice Nne of the Mayonaisse**

Hello, one and all! I'm glad you waited patiently for chapter two!

I just went to see the movie. IT WAS AWSOME! Did any of you notice that Erik's hair color changed after Christine took of his mask? Hmmm…and his face didn't look bad at all. I described it as a _mild _second degree burn. Small quirks…I cried during the last part. I've such a soft heart…

About Meg's hair…it was blonde in the movie, but I hadn't seen the movie when I started the fic. In the book, her hair is black, and in the play, it's a dirty blonde. I chose brown because that's how I imagined her. Sorry if I made anyone upset with this decision!

I am so sorry that you had to read all of those clumsy mistakes in the first chapter. I didn't proofread it, so I deserve to be flamed horribly!

**Mystical Chinchilla: ** I HATE it when I do that! Repetitive words always annoy me, and I'm sorry I had to make you read that. :( I'll be more careful next time. Thanks for the review!

**Johnathan**** Cain: **Once again, I'm sorry for the repetition! Thank you for pointing it out.

**Rowensage**Don't worry, you're not being nit picky. Sometimes I get a little too overconfident in my work and need to be brought down to Earth. Thank you for your review!

**Rena1: ** The glass seems to be an issue with you guys…but that's okay! I should have made her try to get the glass out before she continued her trip, but I was too caught up in trying to get her to the Underground Lake. Besides, a certain somebody is going to help her with the glass problem in this chapter… Thank you for your review!

**Snowfox2: **I laughed when I read your review, but you gave it away!!! ::turns to the redheaded clown standing next to her:: Sorry, Ron, but you're fired.

::Ronald walks away dejectedly::.

No, no, just kidding! Thanks for your review, snowfox2!

A special thanks goes to Sheepchi, who went to see the movie with me and busted out laughing when the Phantom arrived at the masquerade. Her reason was that, when she went to see the play in Tampa, the Phantom's costume made him look like he had his arms in the positions of the wings in the 'Chicken Dance'. Way to go, Sheepchi!

**Chapter Two: Out of the Rain**

**Meg's POV**

_Where am I?_

_Am I…in Heaven?_

_Where is my mother?_

My thoughts floated drowsily in my brain as I came to. I felt my body being moved from side to side, as if I was floating down a placid stream. I tried to open my eyes, but as soon as my lids unclosed, a brilliant, stunning light rendered me blind. I moaned faintly, bringing a scratched and bloody forearm up to my face to shield it from the light. I felt my body lurch; it felt like someone had grabbed me around my waist and picked me up like a sack of cornmeal. I wondered if it was the same someone who pulled me from the frigid waters of the Underground Lake. I felt something hard under my stomach; when I felt around with my hands I found that I was being carried over that person's shoulder. I heard the steady _ploosh_of water being disturbed; we were moving through shallow water—or was he walking on water? Was I really in Heaven? Where was my mother?

As soon as I heard the heel of a boot strike hard flooring, my hopes of being with my mother died. I tried opening my eyes again, but as soon as I succeeded in coaxing my left eye to peek around at my surroundings, my rescuer swung me down off of his shoulder, and I was overtaken with a fierce wave of nausea. I collapsed onto all fours and vomited water all over the wood paneling. Tears formed that the edges of my eyes from the force of my sickness. I cried out in pain and retched again. I heard the person behind me heave a sigh of exasperation; it sounded deep and masculine. I froze in terror. _A man living in the Earth beneath the Opera House…_

I tried to stand up; unfortunately my legs were like frozen sticks, and I only succeeded in throwing myself around on the dock like a lunatic. On my last try, when I almost plunged into the icy waters again, the man jerked me roughly off of my traitorous feet and into his arms. "You are going to kill yourself," I heard him say—my ears were full of water and I couldn't make out the individual words—"and, believe me, I would much rather that you did, instead of me having to bring you back from your tangle with the Lake's waters."

One of my hands strayed to the pocket of my blue cotton dress. My fingers met the smooth surface of the mask, and a wave of relief washed over me. I pulled it out of the folds of my dress and dropped it onto my chest. "…Take…." I couldn't speak; my lungs were still too feeble to take in large amounts of air. "…Take…."

"Where did you get this mask, you little thief?"

I opened my eyes in horror. I was staring at the broad chest of my rescuer. His shirt was streaming water onto me, and I had to turn my face towards his broad body to shield my face from the droplets. "It…is not…yours…."

"Oh?" His voice was incredulous.

I lifted my eyes. Their gaze swept over broad shoulders, the visible collar bones through the V-shaped opening of a shirt, a strong neck, a proud jaw—then, the man tilted his head downwards, and I saw exactly what I had been dreading: a pale white mask that covered the entirety of the right side of his face. I shuddered violently in his arms, and a thick blanket of fatigue spread over my body. In a moment I had fainted.

I felt warm, comforting heat on my body as I came to. I wasn't drifting any more, and my stomach, having been rid of its contents, was happily exhausted. There was something soft beneath my body; I flexed my fingers and felt plush, velvety fabric. My ears were filled with the merry crackling sound of a nearby fire. I blinked a few times and finally opened my dark russet colored eyes for good. I was lying on a divan in front of a fire. The mantel that surrounded the grate was made of a creamy, hoary marble. The only decorations on it were two inky black boxes. The lids were opened, and I could faintly make out bronze figurines on metal pivots. The black velvet of the boxes' interiors restricted me from seeing the exact shapes of the figurines, but they had lost my attention, and I turned my eyes to other parts of the room.

The floor in front of the fireplace was smooth gray flagstone, but underneath the divan, and the two chairs that flanked it, there was a richly decorated Persian rug. I could see finely detailed roses stitched into the superior wool. Alongside the roses were ugly vines covered in razor-sharp thorns. The contrast was so brutal that I began to feel sick once more. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. It was then that something jerked on my hair.

"Stay still, or else I'm going to slice your scalp open by mistake."

I began trembling like a terrified dog. It was the voice of my rescuer. He was kneeling at the head of the divan; his long fingers were entwined in my hair. I felt him tugging at my waist-length curls—he was trying to remove all of the debris that had accumulated in them during my journey to the Opera House. And he was doing it none too gently.

"Your arrival has disturbed me immensely," he said shortly, yanking a huge shard of stained glass out of my hair. "I don't know what a little whore was doing in the cellars of the Opera House, but I can tell you that you aren't welcome."

I winced as he pulled hairs from my head along with a particularly large clod of dirt. "I am extremely sorry, Monsieur Phantom," I panted, straining my lungs to answer him in one breath. "But I was asked…by my mother…to return the mask to you."

He lifted his hands from my hair. "What importance is your mother to me?"

"My mother is Madame Giry."

The Phantom paused for a moment, then resumed his search for the shards in my tangled brown locks. "Madame Giry. I should have known. Why did you leave her side? She would have come down here with you."

"My mother is dead."

My rescuer continued picking the glass out of my hair. He said nothing. I bit my lower lip and let my eyes roam the room once more, trying not to cry out as the Phantom of the Opera pulled the fragments of glass and clumps of mud away from my sore scalp.

After what seemed like forever, he stood up. My hands flew to my hair, and I ran my swollen fingers through it. Other than it being wet and dirty, there were no obstructions. "Thank you so much," I said hopefully, eager to get the Phantom to talk again. His silence was unnerving. "How can I repay you for saving my life and this?"

"You can begin by shutting up." His voice was iced with contempt. He moved to my side and grabbed my wrist. "There are slivers of glass in your palms, too."

He dropped my arm and walked into the darkness. "Stay there," he ordered; then, a door opened and closed, and he was gone.

I brought my hand to my face. My palms were puffy and red, and my fingers were even worse. Blood still trickled from my fingertips.

I pushed my upper body off of the divan with my elbows and struggled into a sitting position. I was still clothed in my threadbare dress and heavy boots; the fabric of the former was growing stiff as the flames made the water evaporate. My legs, thin and supportive as limp noodles, were covered with innumerable scratches and gashes. I heaved a shuddering sigh and stood up unsteadily, swaying like a drunken man. The room whirled around me, but I took a shuffling step forwards and reached, with both hands, towards the marble mantel. It looked so cool, so smooth—much like the mask of the Phantom.

The mask…

My hand strayed to my pocket. The mask was gone. A wave of bitter disappointment washed over me, and I let out a frustrated sob. "Why does he need two masks?" I asked out loud, staring at the flames of the fire until my eyes grew dry and hot. "My mother…touched that mask…it was the last thing she held…."

"_Sit down._"

The Phantom's voice was right behind me. I whirled around quickly—a big mistake on my part, for I grew dizzy and fell forwards onto him. He took a step backwards and let me do a marvelous face plant onto the divan. "You shouldn't have stood up, you incompetent idiot," he snapped. "Did I not tell you to stay put?"

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, keeping my eyes downcast. "I won't disobey you again."

The Phantom pulled me up into a sitting position knelt down in front of me. In his hands he held a bottle of clear liquid, a cloth, a spool of black thread, and a razor-sharp needle. He put the needle and thread down and uncorked the bottle.

"You are not to move while I am administering the antiseptic," he said sharply. "So _sit still." _

I tensed my muscles.

He brought the cloth up to the mouth of the bottle and let the liquid spill onto it. Then, he took my left hand in his and spread my fingers wide with his thumb, glancing up at me to see what my reaction would be. "This will sting a little," he said, almost reluctant to give me the information. "So be ready for it."

He pressed the cloth to my skin, and a searing, burning pain was etched into my hand, traveling all the way to my wrist. I bit my lip and struggled to suppress a whimper. The Phantom continued to wipe away the blood and grime that had gathered around the gashes on my hands, deeply engrossed in his task. I took the liberty to try to get my mind off of the pain by studying his features.

He was clothed in the evening dress that I had seen the gentlemen at the Opera wear, the only difference being in that he didn't have a formal coat on over his shirt. He probably removed it before he dove into the Lake to rescue me. He was formidably tall; my head only came up to his chest when we stood facing each other. His body was chiseled with lean muscle, and his white shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing his finely tapered forearms, wide hands, and long, capable looking fingers; the latter was engaged in the process of removing the slices of glass embedded in the skin of my palms.

But it was his face that compelled me to study him the closest. Half of his face looked completely normal, almost handsome, with a smooth white forehead, large eyes, which, from what I could see, were a warm shade of gold, straight lips, and a strong jaw line. His nose was hidden beneath a white porcelain mask that stretched across the entire right side of his face. It looked exactly like the mask that I had been carrying around in the pocket of my dress; and it fitted his face _perfectly. _Even the cold lips of the mask acted as one with his closed mouth, and I thought, for a fleeting instant, that if someone were to kiss this man, they would receive a kiss that would be both icy cold and pleasantly warm at the same time. His dark brown hair fell loosely in front of his forehead, somewhat shadowing his visage. Steam was rising off of his shoulders. So _this _was the Phantom of the Opera.

He put the bottle and cloth down, then picked up the needle. He threaded it effortlessly and broke the strand off of the spool with his teeth. He was about to plunge the tip of the needle into my skin to sew up the gash across my palm when he looked up at me. My lips were parted, my eyes had grown huge, and my skin had blanched. I saw the edge of his lips turn up in a brief smile; the emotion died, and he used his free hand to push my face the other way.

"Don't look," he said distractedly.

I kept my eyes glued to the dancing yellow flames as the needle went in and out, in and out. Before I knew it, he was done with the left hand, and had imprisoned my right hand in both of his own. He massaged my palm gently, then tipped my hand towards the fire so the skin was bathed in light.

"You are in trouble with this hand," he informed me, his voice emotionless. "You've severed several important veins, and I don't think you'll be able to move your fingers any more. What the hell were you doing to put yourself in this position?"

"I told you already," I said, annoyed with his questions. "I came down here to give your mask back to you! I couldn't get through the front door, so I jumped through a broken window and landed in a pile of glass."

"That was very intelligent of you, mademoiselle. Why didn't you try knocking first?"

"Because nobody is in the Opera House."

The Phantom shook his head and poured more antiseptic on the cloth. "The upper levels are still patrolled by police. They are planning to reopen in a few months."

He wrapped the cloth around my hand and I couldn't withhold a short cry of pain. The Phantom growled low in his throat as he tied a complex knot in the rag. "Keep that on for a while, and for God's sake, you're not in that much pain. I could have given you deeper abrasions with the needle I used to sew you up with."

He lifted my bandaged hand so I could see the swollen fingers in their cocoon of fabric. "This amount of antiseptic will cause the skin on your hand to become very dry and crusty," he said matter-of-factly, as if it was no importance to me. "But I don't think this will bother you too much. Tramps don't need to have pretty hands."

I took a shuddering breath and whimpered softly. The Phantom turned his attention to my injured foot. The entire bottom section of my boot was coated in congealed blood. "And I suppose you didn't think to rid yourself of this?" he observed mockingly as he worked the boot off of my foot. "You have seriously ruined your dancing career, mademoiselle."

As he lifted my exposed foot to his face, I thought of slamming it into his mask and shattering his pretty little façade. The Phantom must have felt the muscles in my thigh tense, for his golden eyes flashed sparks, and he was on the offense in a second. He sharply twisted my foot to one side. I cried out in surprise, and before I knew it I was on my stomach on the divan, with the Phantom's knee on the small of my back and my arms pinned onto the divan's cusions on both sides of me. He lowered the masked side of his face down towards the side of my head, and a tremor wracked my body as I felt the frosty lips of the mask brush against my ear.

"If you think," he hissed, "that you can best me, you are sadly, _sadly _mistaken. As it is, you are a pathetic, weak, bloodied, lonely French _whore, _whose only relation is rotting in a grave. I advise you to keep away from me as long as you are down here, and if you even _think _of doing anything to invoke my wrath, so help me, I **will **kill you."

I was frozen with terror. I couldn't breathe; his weight was crushing me. I could see his strong hands twisting my wrists in the wrong direction; his knuckles were white from applying so much pressure to my tiny arms. His words seemed to deliver individual blows to my already overtaxed mind; I began to sob loudly.

I felt him push off of me with his knee, grinding it into the small of my back as he got up. I tasted blood in my mouth.

"I want you out of this place," he snarled, "by _tomorrow." _

I heard him stalk out of the room and slam the door.

I lay there on the divan, every limb in my body throbbing with intense pain, and my mind whirling into a feverish delirium.

"Oh, mother, help me," I whispered hoarsely. In the back of my mind, my conscience warned me with a deep male's voice, _Those__ who leave you always lie…_

I cried myself into a fitful sleep. In my tormented dreams, I saw beautiful gardens full of glorious roses reaching up to the cloudless sky. But whenever I tried to pick a flower off of its bush, a green vine wound its way along the slender stem, and stabbed bloody thorns through the claret petals before my fingers even reached it.

. I don't know why, but this chapter was really hard to write for me. I'm sorry it took so long. Please, tell me if I made any grammatical errors!! Chapter three will be out very soon!


	3. It's So Easy To Hurt Others

**Right as Rain**

**By: Moojuice Nne of the Mayonaisse**

Hello for the third time! I appreciate every single one of your reviews. Thank you for coming back to read this.

However, if you want quality reading, go check out An Eternity of This by **Mandy the O**, and The Mask's Lament by **Kittie**** Darkheart. **They are both fanfictions that blow this one of the water. Still, if you can find love in your heart for this one, I will be eternally grateful.

Thank you to all of my reviewers! I love you all so much!!

Special thanks to **Sheepchi**for her wonderful friendship, and her way of laughing in very serious parts of movies.

By the way…the Underground Lake in this story is a little different that what you might have imagined it. In the movie, the water only came up to Erik's knees, but in this fanfiction, I have it measured at about ten feet from the floor down.

Also, Meg is 20 years old in this fanfiction.

**Chapter Three: It's So Easy to Hurt Others**

I felt wonderfully and blessedly drunk when I woke up. My mind had sunken so deep into delirium that I could barely remember my name; I had all but forgotten the events of the past twenty-four hours. The fire had burnt itself out; the room was cold, and I could see through unfocused eyes that there was a thin layer of fog swirling lazily above the floor. I looked around; I dimly recalled that something had happened to me last night, but exactly what, I could not tell. I felt a dull, throbbing pain in my shoulder; when I lifted up my right hand to inspect the source, I saw the makeshift bandage was still in place. The face of a masked man drifted into my memory; harsh words filled my ears.

_"Tomorrow…I want you out of here by tomorrow."_

Was it tomorrow?

"Is today tomorrow?" I asked. My parched and inflamed tongue felt clumsy in my mouth. "Do I have to go…now?"

The dark walls of the room echoed my words back to me. I felt tears gather at the corners of my eyes. As they fell, they burned bitter trails down my cheeks. I impatiently wiped them away with the back of my hands—my ugly tramp's hands—and pushed myself off of the divan. "I wouldn' wanna stay down 'ere anyway." I could barely understand the garbled lexis that fell out of my mouth. My mind was consumed in the flames of a dangerously high fever; as I took an inebriated step forwards, the fog swirled coolly around my ankles, and my befuddled eyes took pleasure in the sight of the movement.

In the gloom before me, I saw a finely carved wooden door. My hands reached for the bronze handle; I pushed down on it and found it unlocked. The heavy wood swung open, its unoiled hinges creaking stridently in the death-like silence of the house—supposing the Phantom's dwelling was a house. The room beyond the threshold was as thick and mysterious as the water of the Underground Lake. A tremor fled down my spine, and I wrapped my arms around my waist. My skin felt hot beneath my trite dress.

A hoarse scream, echoing from the far end of the house, stalled my feet from moving forwards, and I stood stock still, my eyes growing as wide as dishes from pure terror. When nothing else moved for five minutes afterwards, I took a tentative step forwards. The awkward _thump_ of my bloody boots hitting the floor was the only sound that disgraced the silence that reigned supreme in the house by the Lake.

I staggered through the shadowy room; I was rendered virtually blind, and had to feel my way past the furniture that rose up in ghostly shapes before me. In the near distance, I could hear the relaxed slapping of water against wood; I was rapidly nearing the shores of the Underground Lake. My lips twisted into a hopeful smile and I quickened my pace, ramming myself into a table's sharp corner before finally arriving at the door. I practically threw myself at the lock; it gave way, and suddenly I was sprawled on the ground on the opposite side of the doorway. The air was moist; as I lifted my head I could see that I was lying on a small wooden dock. A boat was tied to a piling with a thick rope; droplets of water dripped languidly off of the twine and landed with audible _plops _in the murky liquid below the dock. It had evidently been used recently.

I braced my upper body with my hands and attempted to stand once again, but I was so weak and disoriented that I could only sway on all fours, with my butt waving around in the air. The faint splashing of water was beaconing me; the surface of the lake looked so solid, so undisturbed, that my fevered brain birthed the idea that I could walk on it to get across. I sat down again and reached for a piling in which to brace myself on.

The Phantom's words from the night before tainted my memory. Resolutely, and with as much determination as I could muster, I promenaded towards the edge of the wharf. I was limping badly—I had angered the Phantom of the Opera so much that he had forgotten to remove the shard of glass—and the fingers on my hand were pulsing painfully. Still, the sound of the water and the stillness of the Lake urged me to examine it more closely. As I reached the end of the dock, a piece of the ceiling fell into the Lake in front of me, sending smooth ripples across the surface of the water, disturbing its serenity. I laughed out loud; it was a laugh of amazement, as if I had never seen moving water before. It was high-pitched and nervous—in the back of my mind, it terrified me.

And then I stepped off of solid ground.

**Erik's POV**

It had hurt so badly when I saw her disappear around the corner that I hardly had the sense to escape before the mob found me. It felt as if she had ripped my heart right out of my chest, instead of just putting the ring back into my palm. I still had the simple little ornament; it circled my pinky finger, holding a constant reminder of what I loved but could not have, of what was beautiful _but not mine._

I had sat, motionless, in front of the organ for days, my head between my hands. I had shut my heart away from the world; not even music could bring her back. It was tied to closely to the memories of her. She with the waterfall of silky auburn hair; the slim and marble-like neck; the creamy ivory shoulders. _Christine Daae._

How could I have been such a fool? To expect her to love me—_care for me, even—_such as I was? A paramount folly on my part! She had loved me as a father, but I had loved her as one who is crazed with desire. As soon as I was about to show my true form to her, that _boy, _that obtrusive, puerile Vicomte, had shown up at the Opera Populaire. An involuntary growl bubbled in my throat each time I thought of him talking with my Christine, _touching_ my Christine. And that night on the roof…my blood curdled at the memory.

But she had chosen what she thought was best for her, and there was nothing I could do about it. She had left me with a kiss and a ring, which was barely enough to satisfy me.

I had hardly realized how much time had flown by before the absolute silence of the abandoned Opera House was disturbed. I had been sitting at the organ, my head resting in my hands. My mask had stared mockingly up at me from its resting place on the dusty ivory keys, and I was about to send it crashing to the floor with a sweep of my arm when I heard a gut-wrenching, desperate, animal cry for help.

For a fleeting moment, my mind had drawn a picture of Christine, of her leaving the Vicomte's side to return to me. I had imagined feeling soft strands of her hair against my cheek and the satin smoothness of her bare shoulders under my hands. And then I had realized that, even if Christine had come back, she would have known better than to come down through the underground path. I had taught her the tricks of my trade as "The Lover of Trapdoors".

And even when I had dove into the cold, unforgiving waters of the Lake and grabbed the sinking form of a girl in blue, my heart still quivered with hope. It was not until I had gathered the intruder to me with one arm, and had broken the surface of the water with the other, that my optimism had receded deep into the depths of my heart. This girl had not the same shape as Christine. This one was too skinny, almost emaciated; her hip bones stuck out sorely at her sides, and the skin on her arms and legs was stretched too tightly over the bones. She was unconscious, of course—it had taken several minutes to locate and rescue her. I had hoped that she would drown, but as I carried her out of the Lake she had taken a strangled breath of air. I had cursed myself for rescuing the wench.

And then she had opened her eyes and showed me the mask—the same mask that Christine had ripped off of my face the day of the performance of _Don Juan. _I had searched for it frantically after she had left me, but finally gave up as reminiscences gnawed at me from the inside out.

I had learned later that the little intruder was Madame Giry's daughter, named Meg, and that her mother had died. Meg hadn't had an easy time getting into the Underground Lake, and I had spent most of the night pulling glass shards from her body. I loathed the task; the girl did not deserve my attention. She was a sniveling, faulty little bitch, compared to Christine. She was weeping over cat scratches on her fingers; I had restrained myself from thinking about the deep gouges etched into the skin of my back.

I had made an uncouth comment about the little waif's hands; she had attempted to kick me, and I punished her severely for it. The girl did not deserve my sympathy, or my attention, and yet I had been waiting on her, hand and foot. I had left her immediately afterwards; I had to cleanse myself of her presence.

My dismal chamber was familiarly silent after the incident, and I did not trouble myself any further with the girl. A small part of me wished that she would leave without troubling me any further, but I knew that she would be having complications due to her near-death experience and the wounds the glass had caused. Still, I would not interact with her unless it was absolutely necessary.

I fingered the mask in my hand gently, tracing its smooth curves until I noticed the thick smear of blood wiped on its solid cheek. A small flicker of anger swelled in my heart—Christine had touched this mask, and this new waif had soiled it with her blood. Christine's memory was gone from it.

I strangled cry escaped from my throat and I threw the mask from me. My knees gave out from beneath me, and I crumbled to the floor. _A kiss, a ring, and a mask…_my hands clenched into fists. _She left me wanting so much more. _

And then, echoing my scream, there was a short, shrill sound of laughter, shockingly similar to the titter of a lunatic. My eyes snapped to the arched doorway, which was shielded from the rest of the house by thick crimson curtains, towards the direction of the Underground Lake's shores. _No one should be down here except the girl and you, _my reason warned, _and the girl is too sick to be laughing. _

And then, I heard a loud splash.

_WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING?!_

I scrambled up from the floor and yanked the red velvet curtains aside. The Lake in front of the music altar was trembling, its water slapping against the flagstone floor. Meg was nowhere in sight. I ran up the steps to where I had last left her and threw the door open. The dining room sprawled out in front of me; I saw in the other corner of the room that the door to the parlor was open. _No--! _

Almost without thinking, I turned on my heel and dove off of the steps and into the frigid water below. I opened my eyes, wincing as the green liquid burned into my irises. There was no sign of Meg. I came up for air, pulling as much air into my lungs as they could possibly hold, and plunged back underwater. _If she fell off, she would be thrashing. _

_If she jumped…she would be sinking._

My clothes were weighing me down, and the damn cape that was draped across my shoulders was hindering the strokes of my arms. Still, I did not have time to relieve myself of the garments.

My chest was on fire, and me eyes were bloodshot; I hadn't seen Meg yet, not in the thick murk of the water. Cursing inwardly, I surfaced for another gulp of air. As I was about to submerge myself for the third time, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, movement under the pier.

_Bubbles._

I lunged back under the surface of the water and swam straight down. There, on the algae-coated bottom, was the limp form I had been so frantically searching for. She was floating on her back; her eyes were closed and her mouth was open. Her arms, pushed upwards by the current of the icy water, seemed to be reaching helplessly for me.

_Has her body already gone through the rigors? _

I swam down to her and clasped her slack body in both of my arms. She did not respond. I pushed off of the slippery bottom of the Lake with both feet and kicked towards the surface.

_Why are you saving this girl? You hate her. _

When we burst into the chilling air, I took a gasping breath, choking on the water that I had swallowed. My intruder's head flipped back, lifeless. Her sodden hair was dragging her back underwater. Growling irritably, I heaved her onto the dock and pulled myself up after her. I lay there beside her, one hand on my stomach, attempting to catch my breath. I cast a sidelong glance at her, blinking water out of my eyes. She was lying in a disheveled heap, and water was streaming off of her clothes. Her right hand, the bandaged one, was pushed up against her face. Her flimsy dress stuck to her emaciated body like a second skin. I removed my sodden cloak and hung it on a piling. This was the second time that I had practically drowned myself coming to this orphan's rescue. I would not do it again.

_Well, you have pulled her from the water. What shall you do?_

I sat back on my heels, coughing the last of the water from my lungs. The limp form in front of me shuddered weakly. She was not breathing.

_Why did you pull her from the Siren's grasp? You hate her._

Anger welled up within me, and I grabbed a fistful of Meg's hair and hauled her upper body off of the floor. She didn't wince in pain; instead, her body turned slowly, as if hanging from a string. Her face ended up turning towards me.

I remembered that she used to be one of Christine's friends. She often appeared on the stage as a fairly promising ballerina; the managers had been excited by her movements, no doubt. As I examined her, however, I doubted that anyone from the Opera would have recognized her. Her face was narrow and pointed; her eyes, though closed, were sunken, and the skin around them was dark from lack of sleep. I could see every bone in her body; they showed through the fabric of the saturated dress. She looked more like a skeleton than me.

"Should I save you the trouble of living, my dear?" I asked sarcastically. "You are not worth the trouble, nor the time—and even if you did live, where would you go? I will not keep you."

I stood up, Meg still hanging from my hand like a puppet. "You have disturbed me very much, Mademoiselle Giry, but I believe I am doing you a favor by letting you go to your mother. She…."

I stopped. Madame Giry. I had her child's life in the palm of my hand. She had saved me, so many years ago…the traveling circus…the "Devil's Child…"

_What tears I might have shed for your dark fate—_

I glanced down at the motionless figure dripping from my fingertips. Her mother had done me the greatest favor that anyone could ever have given me…and I was about to let her child die.

_Turn cold--_

I lessened my grip on Meg's hair, and she crumpled back onto the pier.

_And turn to tears of hate!!_

I knelt down behind the girl. "Damn you," I whispered as I tilted her head back towards me. "Damn you and your brashness." The water dripping off of my hair splashed onto her blue-tinted cheeks.

I impatiently tugged her hair out of the way of my knees. Then, I lightly pinched her nose shut with one hand and opened her lips with the other. Placing one finger under her pointed chin, I steadied myself, then, hesitantly, I placed my mouth on hers.

Her skin was colder than the Underground Lake; I had to struggle not to recoil. _Are you too late? _

Then, I blew one quick, deep breath into the girl's unmoving lungs. And another. And another. And another. I paused, lifting my mouth away and lowering the unmasked side of my face to check for her soft breath against my cheek. Nothing.

I cursed my hesitancy and lowered my mouth onto Meg's once more, resuming my task. Her skin was still cold to the touch, but I would not give up. I kept coaxing air into her lungs, breathing for her. Her limp body gave no response to my help.

"Live, damn you," I snarled as I took a breath. "Live."

In the back of my mind, I saw a young Madame Giry, holding her hand out to me, her eyes pleading. _Come!! They will find you!!_

Christine, her smooth lips pressed to mine, her voice filling my head. _You are not alone…._

My rapidly beating heart gave a sudden leap when I felt a tremor pass through Meg's body. Her arms jerked at her sides—was she trying to fight her way back from Heaven? I continued to breathe into her, forcing her chest to rise and fall. I lifted my head away and caught my breath, noting that the color of her skin was rapidly turning from blue to a pasty white.

"At least you've made it this far," I mumbled. "You have your mother to thank for this…"

As I lowered my mouth onto Meg's for a final try at revival, I felt some response from the rest of her body—her back arched halfway up in the air; then, she let it fall, defeated, back onto the dock.

Suddenly, I noticed something was different. I couldn't recognize it right away—it was only when I heard a small whimper from inside of Meg's throat that it hit me like a slap in the face. _She was breathing._

I lifted my lips away from hers and turned my head, fearing the worst.

_She was staring at me. _

I will only say this much: What's going through your head right now?

A. Oh, wow! Erik will profess his love right now to cover up his embarrassment!

B. Hmm….I wonder how long Meg was underwater?

C. Oops! Bad time to wake up!

D.Ooohhh…mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!

I'm sorry this took so long, so I will see you in chapter four very, very soon!!


	4. When You Can't Feel Pain

**Right as Rain**

I've got nothing to say in defense of myself. I'm a lazy asshole and I'm terribly sorry. You may flame the hell out of me. I give you full permission to call me the worst author in the world.

Also, the answer to the question posed two years ago was D. Mouth to mouth. Hooray.

Now that I'm in college, I'll have even less time to update, but I had an epiphany last night and I realized that I really did want to finish this story…if anyone wants to read it.

Now, here we go. After the biggest hiatus since sliced bread was invented, I give you chapter four.

Kudos to whitedragon235 for giving me Erik's first line. Sorry it took me two years to get it out.

Also note that Erik's character seems a bit wonky in this chapter; I forgot how I originally wanted to portray him. Ha.

**Chapter Four: When You Can't Feel Pain**

**Meg's POV**

"No."

I sat on a chair in the Louis-Philippe bedroom, wearing a stale cotton gown that had been shoved onto my body when my tattered blue dress had been removed by my host, after he pulled me from the Underground Lake. My hair dripped water and smelled like stale seaweed; strands of it stuck to my face and neck. I couldn't brush them off, however; the Phantom had seen fit to securely tie me to the chair by my hands and feet.

I had woken from my shock to find the Phantom of the Opera hovering over me, his mouth touching mine. My first reaction was to scream; my second reaction was to slap his face. I acted on the second one; I didn't have the breath to cry out. My hand left a red print on the Phantom's cheek.

"I grow tired of saving your life, mademoiselle," he had said to me. And then he re-dressed me in a plain dress from the opera wardrobes and tied me to a chair. Now he was pacing in front of me; his body a dark shadow in the unlit room. I stared straight ahead, unblinking. And I asked the question again.

"Let me go."

He continued pacing. "No."

I didn't expect another answer. I coughed wetly. I was cold, and soaking, and still sick.

After a moment he stopped and turned towards me. His mask gave off a soft glow. "Why exactly are you here?"

I felt a trickle of water run down the side of my face, and I shivered. "I came to give your mask back." It was the only answer I had.

"Yes, and now I have it back. So, why are you still here?"

My mind flashed back to my last conversation with my mother. She had a solid basis for her reasoning, but I was still terrified of her orders. _Give the mask back, tell him you are the daughter of __Giry__, and tell him that you have no place else to go. He will surely—_

My reverie was broken; he was approaching. Bending down, he brought his masked face next to mine. "Maybe," he said, "it's because you keep putting yourself in positions where you have no choice but to stay here."

"I didn't know I was so close to the lake," I said.

He moved around the chair so he was standing in front of me. "And that's why you're tied to a chair right now, mademoiselle. If I hadn't found you then the Siren would've been very happy, indeed."

"I would've been happy, too," I muttered.

The Phantom cocked his head at me. "I don't think I like your attitude," he said.

"I don't like _you_."

To my surprise, I heard him chuckle. "Fair enough."

He resumed his pacing. My head was growing heavy and my shoulders were stinging from the way my hands were tied behind my back. I watched him under hooded lids as he walked back and forth in front of the fireplace. He was dripping water, too. I reasoned that both of us could use some drying off.

"You could light the fireplace, you know," I said. He ignored me.

"Let me go," I said.

"No."

_Great._ I coughed again, tasting phlegm. My stomach rumbled. "I'm hungry," I said.

"I have nothing to offer you."

"Please untie me."

He struck his heel against the flagstone floor. "Not until you tell me why you came here."

_It wasn't supposed to be this hard. _"My mother told me to give your mask back."

The Phantom crossed his arms over his chest. "Ah, ah, litte Giry, we've been over this before. You could have left the mask on the other dock; you didn't have to jump into the water. There is another reason. Don't take me for a fool."

I sighed, licking my lips. At first, I thought there was a slight chance that my mother's plan would work out; he tended to my wounds, saved me from drowning—perhaps mother did have the right idea by sending me to him—but after last night I had my doubts. I was terrified of him. I could not—

"Giry."

"Monsieur, this is getting nothing accomplished."

"Answer the question, Giry." His voice was edged with ice. He looked like he was about to strike me.

My mother made it sound so easy. _Surely he will feel compassion for our poor lives, wretched because of his actions. Do not be afraid, Meg. Ask him. Ask him for me._

"Monsieur—I can't…."

He held up a finger to his lips. "Quiet. I'm listening to the Siren, to see if it wants you as a plaything."

I was finally fed up. I shook my hair out of my face and played my last card. _Mother, please make this work. You told me to do this…! _

I drew myself up and practically shouted at him. "Erik Destler, my mother requested that you allow me to live with you."

He froze in his tracks. I saw his entire body stiffen. I held my breath.

The Phantom turned on his heel. "…_Your mother requested WHAT?"_

I had his attention; I had to keep it…!

"My mother saved your life, _Erik. _She risked her life to save you! She kept you safe, she made sure you got paid, she helped to feed you. She—she mothered you! And you repaid her by burning down our place of work and forcing us into homelessness and poverty. Her dying wish was for you to take me in as she did for you. The least you could do is try to be civil with me!"

He was looking at me with the strangest expression on his face—a mix between rage and shock. He had to clear his throat several times before he could answer me properly.

"…She wants you…to stay with me?"

The Phantom began to laugh—it was a thunderous, wicked sound. "Oh, supremely funny, Madame Giry. Sending your ballet rat to take up house with the Opera Ghost!"

I waited by while he raved. I didn't think it would go well; my assumptions were not disappointed. I had to find some way of getting to him.

"If I can't stay here, I'll have nowhere else to go," I said miserably.

The Phantom snorted. "You could become a maid, Giry. Or a prostitute. Your choice."

"My mother saved you," I snapped. "And you refuse her dying wish?"

He strode up to me and wrapped a large hand around my head, jerking my head up and causing pain to shoot down my back because of my pinioned hands. "Were you looking forward to living with me, little Giry? Hm? Did you want to live a "charmed" life beneath the Opera, with a murderer? Did you want to live with a man who would have no second thoughts about killing _you_? Regardless of what your mother did for me, that is in the past, and she only allowed me to become the heartless creature that I am now. I feel nothing but hatred and pain!"

I swallowed. Stars were swimming before my eyes. "She said…you would do it."

He thrust his face up close to mine. I could see my reflection in his brilliant eyes. "What else did she tell you, besides my name? Did she say what I really am? I am the devil; I am made of death. Did she really expect me to take you in? Did she really think that you would thrive, living with a man who looks like _this?!"_

I didn't expect it; it all seemed so unreal. Time slowed down as I saw his hand rise to his face; his fingers wrapped around the mask. Teeth bared, he yanked the bone-white item away; it clattered to the floor. His hand jerked my neck forwards, so our faces were even closer together.

I was staring at the face of the Phantom. And I was terrified.


	5. The Further On I Go

**Right as Rain**

I know the last chapter was short. Things will get better, I promise. Really. A thousand thank yous to all who reviewed. It really gives me so much more motivation to write this story. I think you'll like it.

So…let's find out what Erik looks like. And how is Meg going to get him to let her stay with him? HM?

Read and review. I don't write these stories for myself, you know. Well, technically, I do, but whatever. I still love y'all.

**Chapter Five:**** The Further On I Go, the Less I Know**

Perhaps 'terrified' was an understatement.

It took a while for my brain to register, for my eyes to try to take in the sight before me. Now that his mask was gone, his black clad body melded with the shadows, making it impossible for me to delineate his form from the gloom around him. But his face, being as close as it was, was rapidly becoming more distinct as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

I couldn't speak; the hand that was closed around my throat made it difficult to breathe.

_His face…._

It looked like the skin on the right side of his face had been stripped off; it was as if I was staring at bare bone. Upon closer inspection, however, I saw that there was a paper-thin layer of flesh, mottled gray and yellow, almost the color of parchment. The cut of his face was marred with lumps and gouges—this part of his skull was horribly deformed. His lips ended just underneath his nose; the rest of the skin pulled away to reveal grinning teeth. His eye was sunk far back in its socket, shadowed so much by the jagged bones around it that all I could see was a dull gleam, a pinpoint of light. His right nostril was nonexistent; all I saw was the gaping nasal cavity. There didn't seem to be any skin on the underside of his jaw—the bone gleamed brilliant and white against gray muscle. His collar blocked any further inspection, but the skin on his neck was the same blotchy color as his face.

I couldn't comprehend that I was looking at the same man. His unmarred side was completely normal, if a bit weathered by age. But staring at the grimacing skull before me, whose bones bubbled and twisted under rotting flesh, I didn't see the same man. I thought that _this man _was going to kill me.

"Do you like what you see?" he hissed. "You have to admit, I am _handsome_." He spat the word out like it was venom in his mouth.

And just like that, the spell vanished. His voice broke the terror that had gripped my mind. His anger was something I had experienced before; his sardonic comments and his bitter tone were no strangers to me. Even as he was pulling me from the water, even as he was sewing up my cuts, he was hiding _this…_so why should I be afraid now? It was the same man, even though his face looked like death.

Not to say I still wasn't terrified of what he was going to do to me, and the shadows did cast his face into frightful contrast. It seemed to be floating in front of me.

It was cold. We were both still sopping wet. And perhaps my next action was inevitable.

I sneezed.

My head lurched forwards—our foreheads smacked together. The Phantom cursed and jerked his hand away from my throat, placing both palms over his face. A sharp pang raced through my head. "Ouch."

"God damn it!" Erik said, his voice muffled.

I snorted. My nose was starting to run. Despite the pain in my forehead, I had to let a small smile curl my lips. I had _sneezed _on him. After his furious tirade, after all the trouble he took to take off his mask and present his face to me, he was probably expecting me to be crying out in terror, screaming for mercy. And I responded with a wet sneeze. What a blow to his pride that must have been.

"Sorry," I said. My voice quivered with the effort to keep my humor in check. Erik brought his hands down and glared at me. It was fascinating, watching his facial expressions. I couldn't stop staring, trying to see how the expression of anger reflected itself on each side of his face. The eyes sparked with the same ire, but the skeletal half-grin of his bared teeth made his expression look much more threatening than just a scowl alone.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then, thinking better of it, moved to pick up his mask from where it had dropped on the floor at my feet. I saw a red mark on his forehead and imagined that its twin was blooming above my eyebrows. He brought the mask back up to his face, but a felt a tug of true sorrow for the man, and I said, "Wait."

His eyes locked with mine. "What?"

"Don't put that on."

His mouth moved; I was totally engrossed in how both sides of mouth moved to form words. The teeth clicked together faintly; I wondered why his speech wasn't impaired by such an obvious flaw in mouth structure.

Then: _he's a ventriloquist. _My mother told me, once, that the Phantom could throw his voice, could make it sound like anything he wanted. Perhaps he developed this technique because his words would otherwise be slurred by his lack of a complete mouth.

"…not here for your personal entertainment, little Giry, so I suggest you conclude with your study of my face." I snapped to attention. He had been talking to me; I had not heard a word of it. Instead I repeated, "Don't put that on."

But it was too late; the porcelain piece with its straight mouth and flat cheek had covered up his face. He looked so…_false_, like a doll. His eye peered out from the eyehole, taunting.

"Take the mask off, Erik," I said. He turned on his heel and began walking away from me. He flinched every time I said his name.

He was leaving the room—I was still strapped to the chair.

"At least untie me!" I shouted at him.

He opened the door and stepped through the threshold. A moment later I heard a key clicking in the lock. A red haze of anger burned in my head, accompanied by my fever, which had gone unnoticed until I realized that my limbs were shaking and I was feeling nauseated. I tried moving my wrists; the rope rubbed against my skin and made it burn. My feet, tucked underneath the chair and pinioned to one of the wooden legs, were useless.

There was nothing that I could do. I had to sit here and wait.

_For what?_For him to get over this tantrum? I hadn't said anything to make him angry—and sneezing is a human action, after all. I was growing tired of our constant arguments. I swallowed; my stomach gave a painful twist. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. Maybe he'd leave me here to starve. My mouth became suddenly dry.

I held out for as long as I could, but the near-drowning and the fever were dragging me down. When the room started to swim, I felt a small pang of fear—and then, nothing.

**Erik's POV**

She _had _been terrified. I saw the panic in her eyes when she took in my face for the first time. She had blanched; I distinctly remembered hearing a sound of fear coming from her throat—but then, it was gone. I said something, and she was snapped out of the trance. Her expression became…calm, almost, and thoughtful. She looked at me, almost expantantly. _Why don't you do something?_

But I _had _done something—I had bared my curse for her, shown her the face that my own mother couldn't stand to look at! And she sat there and stared, like she was looking at a _normal_ person.

And then she sneezed on me. Needless to say, I didn't know how to continue the conversation. I was prepared for any reaction—except hers.

I returned to the bedroom a half-hour after I had walked out, almost apprehensive about facing her again. I opened the door slowly. There was no movement from the form in the chair.

"Giry."

She didn't answer me. Her head was slumped over her chest, her hair hanging in tangles around her face. I reached down and jerked her face up; her eyes were half-closed. The skin under my hand was clammy. So, she was unconscious. Her fever had not gone down.

I heaved a sigh and knelt down in front of her, grabbing the rope around her ankles and untying it. "How annoying," I said to her as her ankles swung free. I reached around and tugged at the string around her wrists. "You cause so much trouble."

She slumped forwards, no longer pinioned by the rope. I caught her against my shoulder and heaved her up out of the chair. She was too easy to carry; a mere wisp of flesh. It wouldn't take much more of this fever to kill her. It looked like I was in for a long round of playing 'doctor'.

I turned down the cover on the bed and tossed her onto the sheets. A stale smell wafted into the air; I never used this room—it had been built specifically for Christine. I hadn't entered it since the last night she had been here.

I dragged the quilt over the girl, up to her neck. Her body barely made a lump underneath the blankets. She shuddered; her eyes opened.

"It's cold in here," she whispered hoarsely.

It looked like I was going to have to start a fire after all.

"All right, Meg," I said. "You win."

Her eyes brightened. She tried to push herself up; I put my hand firmly on her forehead and pressed her back down into the pillows. "—For now," I finished. "I will allow you to stay with me until you are better. What little humanity I have is keeping me from sending you back onto the street."

She coughed. "And when I am better, what will happen to me?"

I walked to the fireplace. A few unburned logs waited in the grate; I grabbed a box of matches and a few dried bits of wood. I contemplated my actions as I watched the flames grow. Sending her away as soon as she was healthy was my easiest course; I would be content in knowing that I had helped her conquer her fever. Whatever she did after that was none of my concern. On the other hand, she was a homeless girl, coming from the Opera, where all she could do was dance, and not very well at that. She had no other skills; she would be worthless as a maid and ruined as a prostitute. The Opera reopened in a matter of months, but surely I could not have her here for that long. It would drive me mad.

_It is only two months until opening day. Surely you can live with that. _

"Monsieur Erik?"

My name on her lips again; damn Madame Giry for telling her wench of my true identity! Christine's pronunciation of it was much more elegant; she made my name sound beautiful. Hell, I preferred Nadir's accent of my name to this girl's. I ground my teeth and looked back at the form on the bed.

"Go to sleep, Meg."

"What will happen to me?"

I turned back to the fire, letting the blaze warm my hands. "We shall see."

I remembered the glass in her foot; she would not be able to dance unless she underwent vigorous training again. Even if I waited the necessary months until the Opera reopened, she wouldn't be able to perform. Who, then, could I leave her with?

And the idea came out of nowhere: _Nadir! _My dual tormenter and friend—I could introduce them—he could hire her to do menial work around his estate. He would not allow her to live with me; he knew my unsteady nature all too well. It was perfect. I would be free, and Meg would be off of the Parisian streets.

"We shall see," I repeated. I smiled.

Behind me, I heard a sigh. And then:

"Is that your real hair?"

So, that's chapter five. Things will start picking up soon, I promise. I really do. I know it's boring. But it'll be better.


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